Homecoming
by Wren
Summary: Haha! The flamer/critic extraordinaire has written something! Just read it. It's interesting. Please?
1. Default Chapter Title

Homecoming

  
  


_A/N: Well, this is an interesting little frolic in my crazy mind. . . .I hope you enjoy. It's a bit angsty, I'm not exactly sure what happens next, and PG-13 for my potty mouth. I'm a pyromaniac myself, so flames are permitted if you absolutely feel the need. Constructive criticism is eternally appreciated!!! So please review, especially Kain, Gypsy, Flourish, Slytherin Dragon, Alicia Spinnet, Dobby (Fudge's friend), and Morrigan, because you guys rock!_

  
  


_Disclaimer: I am she and she is me and we are all together. Peace out._

  
  


_Disclaimer to disclaimer: This disclaimer belongs to the illustrious Flourish. I don't think Flourish will mind that I've borrowed it. . . .see above._

__

Harry Potter looked out the window of the airplane and watched as the lights of New York City shrank below him to faint neon blurs. He shook the plastic glass of brandy he held in his hand, took a careful sip, and rested his forehead against the cold glass of the window, sighing, his eyes closed. All he wanted was to get drunk maybe and fall gently into a cushioned, sleepy haze where he could forget-forget the place he was leaving, forget the place he was returning to. Things were so much nicer when one is under the influence. Easier. Simpler. And somehow softer, in the same comforting way that the world looked when Harry took off his glasses-lines losing their biting sharpness, faces their distinctions. 

But the brandy was his fourth, and the stewardess, a twiggy thing with blond hair and a smile that were both all too fake, had shot him a suspicious look when he had ordered it, though she had kept her mouth thankfully shut-you could get away with anything in first class, which was the way Harry was flying. And why shouldn't he, since the Minister of Magic himself had paid for Harry to take this trip?

Harry opened his eyes and straightened his glasses, wincing as everything came back into clarity too quickly. He took a last glance out the window. America. A haven for the oppressed. It had been his haven for the past seven years, but it hadn't become home. 

At first America had seemed like a sure thing. He'd been the star player for the Miami Devils, which was possibly the best Quidditch team in the American league, enjoyed a popularity with the ladies while raking in a couple million a year, which he'd mostly squandered one way or another. For some reason, even as a kid Harry had never known what to do with large amounts of money. Somehow, it had never really mattered to him.

Four years into the whole deal Harry had taken a nasty fall that messed up his right arm so much that it was never quite the same again. He'd lost his place with the Devils soon afterward, not so much because Harry didn't play well, but because he didn't _want _to play well. Harry had always privately considered Quidditch a temporary thing, something to hold him over while he grew up, and he'd been eager to spend some time wandering the United States. He had enough money so that he could go where he pleased, staying a week here, a couple of months there, finding himself. It had been the idleness that had led him to the drink, Harry now understood with more certainty than he cared to-regret was something that could eat you up inside. As his meandering path wound on, Harry grew more and more restless, more dependent on alcohol to survive, doing everything but really gaining nothing, and meanwhile the darkness grew larger-he felt like there was some kind of hole inside him, through which all the happiness was leaking out.

Three years older and a staggering two million dollars poorer, Harry was going back to the country he was born in, feeling somewhat older than twenty-seven, disillusioned, very much lost, and so tired he often wished he could sleep into eternity, until all his troubles faded with time. America had lost the charm it had with novelty, but Harry was apprehensive about returning to the people who really knew him and therefore becoming vulnerable again. About seeing the Minister of Magic, who also happened to be his old best friend, and letting him see what he'd become. 

When he'd defeated Voldemort for good in his seventh year a Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry had thought his troubles were over. 

And then life punched him in the face.

  
  


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A violent jolting and shaking in the plane cabin woke Harry up. For a few terrifying seconds, Harry thought the plane was going to crash. Then he realized that they had already landed, and was ashamed for having panicked. He took a steadying sip of his watery brandy as the stewardess bid them good bye over the intercom in a syrupy voice.

"I'm not going to die," he muttered very quietly with a small smirk. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

London International Airport was a flurry of weary travelers rushing from one place to another. Harry fought through the tides of people toward the baggage claim, thankful that he had the sense to carry only two things-a long wand of holly wood and a battered leather wallet, both of which fit neatly into a hidden pocket on the inside of his suit jacket.

Harry found a little booth near the baggage claim where he changed eight hundred dollars for pounds, making the little man behind the plastic counter fumble about annoyingly. As he turned from the booth and stepped into the current of travelers again, he crashed into a young woman who was hurrying by.

"Oh, excuse me, sorry about that," Harry said as the pile of papers the woman was holding scattered in all directions. He crouched quickly to help collect the papers, offering her a sheepish smile. The woman, who appeared to be Harry's age, was small and very attractive, with thick, shoulder-length brown hair and light cinnamon eyes that were so familiar it shocked Harry when he looked into them.

"It's quite all right," the woman said, not taking the hand Harry held out to her and getting up herself. Harry, feeling a little miffed, glanced at the paper he had picked up before returning it. It appeared to be some sort of exam; "Gina Preston" was scribbled at the top and the same girlish writing filled the blank space beneath typed questions.

"You're a teacher?" Harry asked, handing her the exam. 

"A schoolmistress," the woman answered, taking the paper, "and a teacher, yes. I'm grading final exams." She peered up at him thoughtfully. Harry had, once again, upon looking into her pretty brown eyes, the impression that he had met her before-not only that he had met her, but that he had _known_ her. 

"Do I know you?" she asked suddenly, eerily voicing Harry's thoughts. "You look terribly familiar."

"I was just thinking the same thing," Harry replied. A brief thought scuttled across his mind. "Do you think we went to the same school or something?"

"I highly doubt that," she said quickly, flashing a tiny smile that made her even more familiar. A shadowy memory was dancing just beyond his grasp. . .

"Well, I wasn't sure myself," Harry said, thinking of Hogwarts and the practically nonexistent likelihood that she was from there-yet she had acted like she was thinking the same thing-"but did you go to a boarding school? In Scotland?"

"Why, yes!" the young woman said, frowning quizzically. "Shall we head on to the baggage claim?" she asked cordially. "My name is Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

For a moment Harry thought his heart was exploding. He could hear it pounding in his ears, an urgent tattoo that seemed to be saying_ Remember, remember_. . . First was the name-Hermione Granger, his old best friend from Hogwarts. But that wasn't all. The very way she had said it seemed familiar, too-the memory surfaced suddenly, sending Harry reeling. . .__

__

_Harry was sitting with his new friend Ron Weasley on the Hogwarts Express, rushing towards the wizard school that his dead parents had attended, the school where he might find friends and a home. But what if Harry really wasn't a wizard? What if he got there and they told him they'd made a mistake? He thought of returning to the Dursleys again and shuddered._

__

_Ron was attempting to perform a spell on his pet rat, Scabbers, who was sleeping peacefully by the window. Just as he raised his battered wand, a girl entered into their compartment, in her wake the boy who had wandered in a few minutes ago looking for a toad._

__

_"Has anyone seen a toad?" the girl asked in a bossy sort of voice. "Neville's lost one."_ _The girl had lots of bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth. She looked over at Ron. "Oh, are you doing magic?"she asked, sitting down. "Let's see it, then."_

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_Ron rolled up his sleeves and pointed his wand at Scabbers, who was still slumbering unsuspectingly. He cleared his throat nervously and said:_

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_"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,_

_Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."_

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_Nothing happened. The brown-haired girl launched into a lengthy monologue in which she bluntly commented on the ineffectiveness of Ron's spell (while Ron rolled his eyes and exchanged a weary look with Harry), ending with a breathless "My name's Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"_

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_And what had Harry said? Oh yes, the first words he had spoken to Hermione-his name- _

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_"Harry Potter."_

  
  


"Harry Potter," Harry said.

  
  


_"Oh, are you?" the eleven-year-old Hermione had replied, cocking her head to one side and looking at him with interest. "I know all about you of course. You're in Important Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_ _and Recent Triumphs over the Dark Arts. . ."_

  
  


__"Oh my God," the twenty-seven-year-old Hermione whispered. After this brief reply she just stood there, dumbstruck for the first time in her life, staring at Harry as if he'd said something thousands of times more significant than a simple name-which, in a way, he had. 

Then she dropped her papers for a second time, forgetting about them as she breached the gap of four feet and seven years between them and threw her arms around him. Harry laughed softly and pulled her into a hug, a bittersweet joy filling him as he held her, his arms wrapped tentatively at first, then securely, around her waist. How long had it been? Much longer than seven years, certainly. 

"Oh, Harry!" she cried, her words muffled against his shoulder. Harry could hear the tears in her voice and squeezed her closer.

"It's me," he whispered. "It's alright," he added lamely, not knowing what the hell he meant by that and feeling a strange aching in his chest.

Hermione slowly drew away, her bright eyes questing his face for something. "Where have you been?" she asked in a very small voice. 

"America," Harry said, stooping to collect the test papers for the second time. "Playing Quidditch. Bumming around. And you, Headmistress Granger?" he asked half-mockingly, throwing her a smirk.

Hermione took the papers from him absently, still looking intently at him. "Oh, yes," she said vaguely. "I teach Charms too. . ."

"The incarnation of Minerva McGonagall," Harry said teasingly. "I should have known."

"It's not such a bad thing to be," Hermione replied with a trace of her old sharpness, but she lacked her usual snappish tone. "Harry. . ."

"What?"

Hermione then did something completely unexpected-she reached up, brushed aside the still-untidy hair that fell over Harry's face, and traced the thin, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead with a careful finger. Harry felt himself trembling, and though he tried to steady himself, he couldn't stop.

"It's you," Hermione whispered finally, dropping her arm to her side. "I couldn't believe it. . .but it _is. _Harry Potter. . ."

"The one and only," Harry replied, trying to seem offhand, but he was still trembling a little. What the hell had she just done? 

"Harry. . ."she said again, seeming to not hear him.

"Come on," he muttered, putting an arm around her shoulders, and shaking her gently,"let's go. We're getting looks. . ." Harry glared around at the crowd that was eyeing them curiously. Why couldn't they mind their own damn business? If it was something about Muggles, about people in general, that annoyed Harry, it was the fact that they were all so damn nosy.

"Oh, right," Hermione murmured back, dazedly letting Harry steer her towards the baggage claim. As they waited in the packed area for their luggage to be regurgitated out of the shoot, Harry's arm still around Hermione's shoulders, Hermione looked up at him.

"But why, Harry," she asked. "Why? Why did you go? Weren't you. . .happy. . .here?"

Harry averted his eyes. "No," he said after awhile, shaking his head. "I mean, I was happy, but then again I wasn't."

"I-I don't understand."

__

_Why the hell can't you? Why the hell can't I understand? _the dark part of Harry wanted to scream, not for the first time, loud enough so that the world-and himself-could hear it, to no one in particular. But he knew the whole thing was crazy. He really knew it. So instead he said, "It's alright. You don't have to," and let his arm slide slowly off of Hermione's shoulders. But her hand caught his arm on the way down, and she held it, firmly, as if she were saying, _I'm not going to let you go. _But Harry wasn't going anywhere. Not this time. No matter how much he wanted to.

Harry knew he was being vague, but he didn't think he could tell anyone how he felt. He had gotten used to "grin and bear it" when he had still been in Britain, and he didn't really have to explain in America, (another one of the States' charms-ambiguity), where the people he knew after his fling with Quidditch were all Muggles. Harry hadn't been expecting understanding when he came back. How could he, when he didn't rightly understand himself?

Thankfully, Harry didn't have to tear himself apart in introspection, as the baggage finally emerged and made its endless round on the conveyor belt. He just spotted his suitcase, a brand-new snobby leather thing he had purchased for an exorbitant amount of money in a bout of pre-journey craziness, as it slogged past, and snatched it up. As he hefted the unfamiliar handle and propped up the bulky monstrosity, Harry remembered the battered duffel bag he had traveled with during his last three years on the road. He had thrown it away before he left, along with all his other superfluous possessions. Everything that Harry didn't pack in the new bag was gotten rid of, just as Harry had done when he had first left Britain-disposing of anything that might bind him to the place he was leaving. 

As Hermione grabbed a compact black suitcase from the shuffling mound of luggage Harry asked, "Where are you going now?"

"I'm getting a cab. To the Ministry building. You?"

"That's where I'm headed, too," Harry said. He should have known R-the Minister had called Hermione, too. He wondered what this was all about. As they stepped out of the glass doors of the airport into the busy street and cool autumn air, Harry muttered to Hermione, "We need to talk, don't we?"

She glanced at him sidelong-another searching look. "Yes," she said softly, after a moment. "We do."

Harry rubbed his bare hands together and shivered. It was cold outside for his light suit. It was cold inside, too, in a very different way. "Do you want to go out for coffee or something? I'd rather go to a Muggle place, if you don't mind. I-I don't want to be-" 

"-recognized?" Hermione finished gently for him. "Yes, of course. That I can understand." But she glanced at him quickly, as if she quite didn't. Harry wasn't really worried about being recognized. He was worried about recognizing someone _else. _About getting all emotional. _Homecoming,_ he thought wryly, _isn't as easy as they make it out to be._

"What are we going to do with our luggage?" Harry asked, brushing away his thoughts, which were getting too philosophical lately for his liking.

"Honestly, Harry, don't tell me you forgot _everything_ while you were in the States," said Hermione in a superior sort of voice that was obviously the one she used in the classroom. She scanned the opposite side of the street. "Aha! Perfect!" she said, grabbing Harry's arm and hurrying him across the street along with a flock of luggage-toting pedestrians. Once they were on the other side of the busy way, Hermione pulled Harry into an alley just as the chattering flock passed. No one gave them a second glance. 

"Where the hell are we going?" Harry hissed at Hermione.

"Where I'm taking you," she replied mysteriously. "And don't you dare curse at me, Harry Potter." Harry snorted softly but followed her. 

After several sharp turns through the alleyway, which twisted along erratically through the shabby back streets of apartment buildings, restaurants, and small businesses, Hermione stopped suddenly. 

"Here we are!" she said, smiling at Harry and setting down her bag. Harry ran his fingers through his hair, which was no doubt pushed up in all different directions after chasing Hermione, and peered around. They were in an alleyway that looked exactly like the ones they had been rushing through for the last five minutes-damp, gray, and dirty. Harry turned to Hermione.

"What do you mean, 'Here we are' ?" Harry asked, completely lost and a little irritated for being so.

"You'll see," Hermione replied, turning away from him and staring very intently at the smudgy brick wall on their left. "Bingo," she whispered after a few seconds, drawing out her wand and touching the tip of it to a brick that looked identical to the others.

"Wha-" Harry began, but Hermione cut him off.

"_Abertem portem transitem_," she chanted, tapping her wand firmly on the brick in time with each word. Then she stood back.

Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then the brick she had tapped seemed to wiggle slightly. Soon the bricks around it began to undulate as if seen through a fire, and with a soft squelching sound a space three feet wide and long appeared as the bricks melted into a muddy red pool at the foot of the wall. 

"What did you just do?" Harry asked, astounded. "And-and what is that?" he added, pointing to a wide shoot that was visible through the hole. It looked remarkably like a laundry shoot except for the fact that it was silvery-blue and glimmered iridescently.

Hermione glanced at Harry, an amused smile on her face. "What exactly did you do in America," she said softly, "that you forgot about magic?" In her normal business-like tone she continued, "This is a transit port. You can put just about anything through this shoot, and it will come out in the laundry room of your choice. The Minister had them installed all over London last year."

"But how did you find it?"

"Easy," Hermione said with a shrug. "You can get to a transit port from any alley in London. Just enter, make two left turns and three rights, and you'll get to a brick wall on your left as soon as you make the last right turn. Count five bricks from the left and seven up, say the magic words, and viola!-a transit port." She stooped, picked up her bag, and set it on the lip of the shoot. "Your bag, monsieur?" she added, gesturing with a pompous flourish towards the waiting shoot. 

Harry scooped up his bag and placed in next to Hermione's rather nervously. "You're staying at the Leaky Cauldron, I assume," she asked quickly. Harry nodded. Hermione tapped both suitcases with her wand, said firmly, "The Leaky Cauldron," and shoved the bags into the tube, where they disappeared from sight with a sound like a zipper being pulled.

"Cerrem," she muttered when the luggage was gone, and the red pool surged up and plastered itself over the hole. Within three seconds, the brick wall was back, looking as scummy as ever.

"Wow," Harry murmured. "Guess I-I did forget. America was-well-"

"It's all right," Hermione said reassuringly, dusting off her skirt and replacing her wand in her jacket pocket. "You can tell me all about it over coffee."

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The café they chose was large and very noisy, full of people chatting animatedly and quaffing caffeine with gusto. No one even glanced in their direction when they entered, which sealed the decision for Harry. They took a small table tucked into a corner at the back, and ordered their drinks at the counter to avoid a waiter. No doubt anyone who happened to notice their presence would think them to be two young, attractive, upwardly-mobile businesspeople, getting together to negotiate casually over expresso and danish. How wrong they would be.

"So why are you here? In London, I mean," Harry asked, watching Hermione take a slow sip of her coffee.

"Same reason as you, unless I'm terribly mistaken," she said. "Ron-er-the Minister owled me over. I've been in France for the past week, acting as a guest headmistress at a school there, but I flew in as soon as I got Ron's note."

Harry nodded. "I was wondering why you were in the airport. I would have expected you to take the train from Hogwarts."

"It's extremely lucky I didn't," Hermione said bluntly, "or I wouldn't have run into you."

Harry smiled slowly. "I suppose it _is_ lucky." Harry doubted that he would have had the nerve to actually go see Ron again if chance-or fate-hadn't led him to bump into Hermione. "But what did his letter say?" Harry continued. All he wrote in mine was that it was an 'extremely urgent and delicate matter for which he required my counsel' or some bureaucratic nonsense like that."

"I'm glad he wasn't so pompous with me," Hermione said, laughing, "or I would have most likely refused him royally and sent him a very nasty reply. Or else I'd have agreed to come and then slapped him on sight. Poor Ron, I think he's getting into this Minister stuff a bit too much. Next thing I know he'll be wearing a lime-green bowler hat and a purple tie like that old fool, Fudge." Hermione sighed and leaned her elbows on the table as she continued. "But they've been running him ragged since they elected him two years ago, you know. And everything's so difficult these days. Those Muggles are getting more and more suspicious."

"You know, I never thought Ron would be the Minister type," Harry said before he could stop himself. "I mean, not that I thought he couldn't do it or anything. . ." he added quickly, floundering for words.

"It's alright," Hermione said, smiling. "Neither did Ron himself, I think. But he just warmed up to the government thing right away. He's very good at what he does. I think it has something to do with his talent at chess. He plays the whole system very well, as if it were a game. And the old bureaucrats thought they could control him if he was Minister, so they elected him. They're giving him a hard time, but he's figured out how to play them all like pawns so they don't even know it."

"Odd," Harry commented, frowning.

"What is it?"

"It's just-the way you describe it, he sounds almost like-like Malfoy."

Hermione laughed again. "How funny you should say that," she said, "as our favorite Malfoy himself is Ron's right hand man!"

Harry jerked his head up in stark disbelief. "What?! Malfoy-Ron's _right hand man_?! Back at Hogwarts I had to practically nail Ron down to keep him from throttling Malfoy every five seconds! And Malfoy-all those mean cuts about Ron's family. . . .What the hell happened?"

"A lot can change in seven years, Harry," Hermione said, looking highly amused at Harry's incredulous outburst. "I expect Ron-or Malfoy, I wouldn't be surprised if he was in on this too-will want to give you the full story himself. Even I don't know the details."

Harry shook his head and took a gulp of coffee. "Amazing. Next thing you'll be telling me that you're dating Neville Longbottom."

"Actually, Neville and I _were _planning to get together this weekend. . ." Hermione began. Harry half looked up but sighed, relieved, when he saw that Hermione was grinning wickedly. 

"Okay, back to your original question," Hermione continued, cupping her mug in both hands, "the letter. Well, Ron was _annoyingly _cryptic about the whole thing. Said he had something very important to tell me, something only _he_ knew about. Something he couldn't take care of alone. . ."

"So he called his two best friends," Harry said, nodding. "He thinks we'll be able to help him with whatever it is. I can understand that-you're one of the most talented witches in England. No, don't deny it, Hermione," Harry continued quickly with a slight smile just as Hermione opened her mouth to protest. "Even when we were kids it showed. You were a prefect in your fourth year, before anyone else, and you were Head Girl and all. But I don't know why he bothered tracking me down. I'm as good as a squib," he added bitterly. 

"Bullshit if I ever heard any," Hermione said breezily, but fixing him with a look that was not light and breezy at all. It was rather stormy, in fact. "If I'm one of the most talented witches in England, then you were-_ar_e," she corrected herself, "_the most_ powerful wizard in England, maybe even in the world. You'd give even Dumbledore a run for his money. And you were a Head student, too, Harry," she pointed out.

Harry peered up at her over the rim of his glasses, which had slipped considerably."You were right the first time. I _was_ a powerful wizard." Harry glanced down at his hands as they rested on the tabletop-what _power_ they once had. He remembered the magic flowing through his taut hands with a hot, fevered buzzing, the way the tendons would tense when he performed a particularly difficult spell. Now his hands just looked tired. The fingers were curled up a little, making them look like the afraid hands of a child. There was no strength anymore in the narrow wrists or the slim fingers. No more magic. No more-"And as for that Head Boy stuff, look at where it's got me. I'm an ex-Quidditch player with a fucked-up arm and a habit. What success." Harry's voice cracked painfully on the last few words. He let out a choked, sardonic laugh. It sounded terrible in Hermione's silence. 

For a few moments neither said anything. Then, very slowly, as if she were afraid he would shrink away, Hermione placed her hands over Harry's. The strange aching was back, and Harry was acutely aware of the wholeness that had eluded him all these years.

"I-I hadn't meant it to come out that way," Harry began, his voice jumping all over the place.

"It's alright, Harry," Hermione said quietly. "You can tell me."

"But I can't!" he said, in the voice of a frightened little boy. When had he become such a wimp? "Not-not here. Not now."

"Then when?" Hermione asked anxiously. "When will you tell me?" Her hands tightened over Harry's suddenly. "I'm your best friend, Harry. I was since the day I met you sixteen years ago, and I still am, although you haven't spoken to me in seven years. And I always will be. Please, Harry." Harry looked up, and she was staring at him, her eyes wide and urgent and a little hurt. Harry hated to leave her in the dark like this, but what could he do? If Hermione had known what he had done all these years, what would she think?

"You'd hate me if I told you, Hermione," Harry said, his voice cracking like it hadn't in more than ten years. 

"No, I wouldn't!" 

`

"You would," Harry said miserably. 

"Oh, Harry, I wouldn't hate you for playing Quidditch! You were always good at it. . ."

"It's not that," Harry said. "After I stopped playing, I just-fell apart. Really crumbled."

"You don't look it, Harry. . ."

"You didn't even recognize me! If you knew how I was. . . .you wouldn't recognize that person, either, Hermione. I was really low."

"Bullshit."

Harry groaned. "You don't understand! I've _changed! _I really was a jerk in America. . . I used people, Hermione, when I fell apart. I'm a fucking alcoholic, for Chrissake! I can't even tell you about it. . . "

"Yes, you can!" Hermione argued. "It's me, Harry. It's Hermione."

"That's the problem." Harry pinched his eyes shut. "If you knew what I did!"

"Harry, just tell me! It can't be that terrible. You're still Harry."

"I don't know who the hell Harry is anymore," Harry muttered bitterly. "Hermione, when I killed Voldemort, you don't know what happened, do you?" Harry said in a low voice. Hermione frowned.

"Remember that time in our third year at Hogwarts, when Sirius Black was on the loose?" Harry continued, resolved. "And you, Ron, and I went into the Shrieking Shack, and Sirius and Lupin took Scabbers and turned him back into Peter Pettigrew?" Hermione nodded, transfixed by his words.

"But I don't know what you're getting at. . ."

"Just hear me out, Hermione!" Harry said. It was rather ironic. . .now _he _was asking Hermione to listen to _him. _"Well, Sirius was about to kill him, and I stopped him. Remember that? How I said I didn't think my dad-" Harry choked, swallowed back tears-"my dad would have killed him, no matter what he did?"

"Oh, Harry, I was so proud of you then," Hermione burst out. "You really did the right thing. . ."

"But I did something terrible," he said, ignoring her words. "Later. Something my dad never would have done. No one knows about it except me and Dumbledore, and now Ron. . ."

"What the hell. . ."

"When I faced Voldemort, before I killed him, something happened. . ." Harry clutched Hermione's hands just thinking about it. He remembered it even now, the pain, and then the thing that happened next. . . .

  
  


_Haha! Cliffhanger! Mwahahahah! Katie Bell, come and get me! I'm ready for anything. . .::cackles wildly::_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Default Chapter Title

Homecoming: Part 1 ½ 

  
  


A/N: Phew! I continued. . .I'm glad you guys liked the story so much!! That was my first fic, by the way, and I was extremely nervous about how it would be received, so thank you to everyone who reviewed! Reviewing is very, very, very, important to me-and to all writers, I'm sure!-so I would be eternally grateful if you would take the time to review this! You guys have been wonderful, and I hope you like this next part-it's the flashback that Harry was about to go into in the last story. I was stuck on it for a while, but your reviews motivated me and cured my writer's block. Thank you again!!

  
  


P.s. Check out what I wrote in the review to my first story. I replied to most of your comments there, but I'm too lazy to do it again. Dreadfully sorry about Heathrow ::blushes:: that was an awful blunder. . .and "chute." I can't believe that. I'm usually anal about grammar. Grr. 

  
  


Alright, enough griping. I'll let you get to the story. But first. . .

Disclaimer: I am she and she is me and we are all together. Peace out.

  
  


Disclaimer to disclaimer: Thanks, Flourish, for this great disclaimer. When I read this on one of your stories, I just thought, "Wow, that's cool." See, even your disclaimers impress me! __

  
  


A brief technical note: I noticed that ffn.net doesn't like italics when those boxes randomly appeared in my text. Since I love using italics, but don't want you to have to do any guessing, I'm enclosing text that I intended to be italicized in these: text__

  
  


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Harry pulled himself up from the defensive crouch he had adopted when he had sensed Voldemort conjuring his last spell, one that shot white flames at one's adversary. It had been a fairly tricky spell to block, as there had been an anti-contramagi charm thrown in, making it strenuous for Harry to concentrate on his own defensive spell. But Harry had been practicing, and facing Voldemort in various forms over the past nine years wasn't for nothing. With less difficulty than Harry had expected, the flames had faded into pale beams of light that Harry had trapped in the palm of his hand.

Dumbledore was standing calmly behind Harry, waiting to cast some awesome spell that would finish Voldemort for good. Harry was faring well on his own, and had mainly focused on deflecting Voldemort's attacks, as Dumbledore had advised, and tried not to concern himself with the old wizard's inactivity. . .neutrality. And Dumbledore's plan was working-Voldemort seemed to be tiring out. 

Gathering his spell in his fingertips, Harry pretended to be waiting for Voldemort's next attack. When Voldemort seemed to be calling together his charm, Harry flung his hands out and shot pure electric energy at the body that embodied the most powerful Dark wizard in history. Voldemort, taken by surprise, screamed with pain as the electricity crazed through him. He staggered, weakened. Harry came closer, a spell sketching itself onto the skin of his hands. If only he could kill Voldemort now; the Dark wizard looked as if a strong hex would finish him for the time being. Harry got ready to cast. Words of power murmured of their own accord on his lips, his hands clenched, the spell's humming became higher pitched. . . .

And then Voldemort jerked his head up. Swiftly, like a guillotine's blade falling; jarringly, like a noisy flock of sparrows startling from a silent wood; a sudden motion that sliced the fatal moment between magic's calling and actual casting. The magic died, in a quiet, unborn agony. The words blew away, like leaves scattered by a capricious wind. 

Harry couldn't look away. Voldemorts eyes were staggeringly deep, black as sloe, and they held Harry's gaze with a force as ancient and irresistible as the ocean's steady pull. The darkness of Voldemort's eyes seemed to spread, and as he was slowly swallowed by a tangible night as desolate as space, Harry realized, dimly, that his scar was throbbing. 

The pain was terrible-it felt like his skull was bursting, like it wasn't big enough to hold his brain. Harry cried out as the pressure of a thousand tons of water crushed his head from the inside. Stop! Harry screamed in desperation, swooning. 

The pain slowly dulled to a faint pulsing. The taut sensation in his head remained, but Harry could open his eyes. From the ground, Harry could see Voldemort's body, cold and white, the terrifying head nodding on his chest like a sleeping child's, the limbs splayed grotesquely like those of an abandoned marionette. I defeated him! Harry thought excitedly. He's dead! Harry pulled himself to his feet. Dumbledore was standing in front of him, concern lining his face. 

"Are you alright, Harry," Dumbledore asked. Harry could barely hear him. . .his lips were moving, but the words were muted. . .and then the question echoed back, ten times too loud. What? Harry tried to say, but the air in his chest seemed too tight.

Everything blurred, exactly like when a camera changes focus from an object in the backround to one in the foreground. Images, lines, color seemed to bleed around the edges, like the fuzzed light of streetlamps at night. Then, gradually, things were brought back to clarity-and beyond. It was too clear now, painfully so. Harry yanked off his glasses, and swung his head from side to side. It was better, but not by much. There was Voldemort's body again. . . Ha, Harry thought triumphantly. Won't be needing that anymore. He froze. Where had that come from? A strange new power was moving through him. The air around him felt somehow sharper, and he was intensely aware that spells were forming effortlessly at his fingertips. This is wonderful! Harry-or was it Harry?-thought. He was getting used to this strength-he felt as if he could move the galaxies if he willed to. Again Harry turned to Dumbledore. That old fool. He won't suspect a thing. Have to pull myself together. The part of Harry that was still Harry was getting frantic. Where was this coming from? Who are you? the light part of Harry screamed, but the spells were already coming together. Harry had enough awareness to recognize certain death-but for whom? The power the Dark insisted. Don't forget the power. . . the Light tried to assert itself, but was silenced. Harry saw it for what it really was-weak. Nothing could keep him from this power. Wild exhilaration surged through him, along with a jarring wrongness. He could do anything. He didn't need Dumbledore anymore. He could probably kill him if he wanted to. 

And then the green light was bursting from the palms of Harry's hands, flashing at this man who had watched over him for the last nine years with the tenderness of a father. Dumbledore's eyes widened in disbelief, and a ragged yell tore from his throat. The pain was apparent, the twinkle slowly fading from his bright blue eyes. The old man's dying eyes quested Harry's face. Harry stood, stunned, his hands still flung out before him. A lightning-shaped cut, identical to his scar, slashed Dumbledore's weathered forehead, gleamed with scarlet blood.

"LILY!" Dumbledore bellowed. Harry staggered as a white flash blinded him, The power flew from his body, and his legs seemed to collapse, as if they had atrophied in a span of seconds. 

Both men, the old and the young, crumpled at that moment-one into death, the other into unconsciousness, and, later, a life that was oblivion by day and hell by night.

  
  
  
  


********************************************************************************

  
  
  
  


A/N: Me again. I personally like the first part best (my muse actually showed up, for once!) Well. . . ::wrings her hands nervously:: I'm going to go ahead and anticipate your questions right here. I realize that this part, this answer to the awful cliffhanger (sorry about that, everyone, but it was a cliffhanger in writing for me, too!) isn't as congruent with the rest of the story as it should be. When I started, I had no idea what was going on. . .I did consider having Harry kill Pettigrew, but that didn't really work out. I hope this isn't too dramatic. What do you think, hmm? The next part will include a lot of explanation. This is to tide you over! Please review! I'm dying to know what you think! Should I continue this? 


	3. Default Chapter Title

**Homecoming: Part 2**

  
  


**A/N: Hello, all. Well, Dobby, I'm going on with this, without waiting for your opinion. . .let's just see what happens. I can't believe it took me so long to write this next part! Sorry for the incredibly loooooooooong wait. I had finals, and summer school, and an essay course. . . .but most of all I had (have) a festering and not-unfounded inferiority complex and an immense case of writer's block. PG-13 for my potty mouth and the fact that this is going to get pretty intense later on , I hope. Please, please, please, review-Morrigan, Meritre, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, Flourish, Wolfie Twins, Masoumi, Kain/Mena whoever you are, Firebolt, WeasleyTwinsFan, Dobby (Fudge's Friend), and everyone else who *doesn't* belong to the League of Idiotic Reviewers and who has anything remotely resembling an opinion. You can flame, but flame *intelligently,* please. Oh, and don't forget to enjoy. That's kind of important, too! ;)

-Wren**

  
  


P.s.: I'm doing italics a new way-*text.* I don't like the text thing, it's too bulky. 

  
  


Disclaimer: All characters belong to J. K. Rowling, who *won't* have Harry end up with Ginny if she knows what's good for her!!!! ::grumbles:: I *hate* Harry/Ginny. Just thought I'd say that. On to the story. . ..

  
  


NOTE: HARRY JUST CAME OUT OF A FLASHBACK-HE HAS TOLD HERMIONE WHAT THAT AWFUL THING THAT HE DID IS. YOU MIGHT WANT TO REVIEW THE LAST INSTALLMENT BEFORE CONTINUING.

  
  
  
  


Harry didn't want to look up. He stared intently into his coffee, absently noting the way the fluorescent lights overhead made the dark brown liquid gleam. He did not want to look up. Meet Hermione's eyes. Stand eyeball to eyeball with guilt, estrangement. He did not want to see whatever thoughts those achingly familiar pupils betrayed. 

"Harry. . . ." 

_*_God, please don't let her hate me,* Harry prayed to that heartless god who gave human beings like him miserable lives like his. Hermione's friendship was the last worthwhile thing he had left. *Please_,* _ he screamed to whatever fragment of order there was left in the world. *Please_. . .* _

"Harry. . . ."

The owner of the name gave no reply. He focused on his untouched cup of coffee, the table, _*_anything* but the eyes that held his judgement. The rage that had always burned in him blazed up again, for Voldemort, once again, had control of his life. Thanks to Voldemort, he had grown up an orphan, had never known his parents. Voldemort's ever lurking presence made every joy he had known at Hogwarts blunted-for each moment was tainted with fear, each moment might have been his last. Even Harry's mind was not totally in his control, and Voldemort had made him a murderer, a recluse, and, though indirectly, an alcoholic. Now the only person who mattered to him in the *whole goddam world,* his best friend, was going to hate him. He could see the last pitiful bit of stable ground he had crumble away, could see himself falling, falling, falling through nothing. . . 

"Harry. . . ."

Harry's gaze rested on his hands again. He blinked with mild surprise-for his fingers were twined tightly with Hermione's. She hadn't let go. As if following his gaze, and understanding, Hermione gave his taut hands a gentle squeeze. It was brief, but it was enough.

He looked up.

A little of Harry's despair left him-there was no hate in Hermione's eyes. Her expression was unreadable, but she was frowning slightly. Harry tried to guess her emotions-sadness? confusion? 

"Harry, I-I don't think I understand," she murmured.

Of all the reactions Harry had anticipated, he hadn't thought of this one. 

"What?"

"I mean. . .Dumbledore's-Dumbledore's dead. . ." her words dwindled into an unsure silence.

Harry gripped her hands closer, keeping Hermione with him for a few more precious seconds. He couldn't face her, he couldn't face Ron. Why did he come back to this nightmare? Wasn't this the last thing he wanted?

"I did it," Harry whispered fiercely, "I did it. I'm a murderer, Hermione.*I'm a goddam

murderer!*" He released her hands roughly and started to get up, but he knocked the table as he rose. Harry watched helplessly, one hand at his forehead, as his mug fell over, rolled swiftly across the tabletop and plunged to the floor, erupting at the impact with a jangling crash and sending white chips of ceramic flying. One triangular fragment shot up frighteningly towards Harry's eyes, instead embedding itself in the hand hovering in the way with a force it shouldn't have had. Suddenly the previously unnoticed pair had the attention of every customer in the shop. Dark coffee flooded across the table to stream down to the white ruins of the mug on the floor. Harry stared dumbly at the mess for a few seconds, then yanked the ceramic chip from his skin and dropped it to the ground crimsoned. As waiters rushed into the silence Harry pulled a bill from his pocket and shoved it onto the table without looking at it. He strode to the door, ignoring a waiter's tentative call to stop, and hurried into the street without looking back. 

Halfway down the block Harry could hear the quick footsteps of Hermione pursuing him. Ignoring her, he undid his tie and clumsily wrapped it around his bloody hand as he walked.

"Harry, wait!" Hermione's words floated up to him. He tried walking faster, and realized that, for the second time, he was running away, like a coward. 

"Wait." This time the words were uttered close by his ear with a sadness that made him stop, turn around. 

"Harry, don't run away from me again," Hermione whispered, and Harry was startled by the tears winking in the corners of her eyes.

"Hermione, I-" Of course Harry didn't know what to say. He hated himself, he hated coming back-but most of all he was afraid of his friends hating him too, and here was Hermione, running after him after he told her he murdered Dumbledore? Why? Couldn't she see that he was changed? "I told you, Hermione, I'm different. Seven years can do a lot to a person, remember? I don't even know why I came back. I'm a *murderer*, Hermione. I'm not the same Harry. . ." he gulped, and it was loud in his own ears. "It's better-it's better if you don't see me this way. . ."

Hermione stood quietly beneath his words, her eyes downcast and her lips parted slightly. Around her there was a sort of stillness, it seemed to Harry, as if the honking cars and the rushing pedestrians were somehow paused. *Is this magic?*Harry thought wildly.

Hermione looked up, resolved, and the world held its breath.

"But you've still got your mother's eyes," Hermione said, staring at him directly.

Harry reared his head back. "What?" he asked, a little too loudly.

"You've still got your mother's eyes," Hermione repeated flatly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Lily's eyes," she elucidated, starting to talk very quickly. "I wasn't sure just a moment ago, but now-now I am. You said you did something your father would never do, but you've still got Lily's eyes, and I'm not just talking about them being green." She paused, seemingly frustrated. "Harry. That's right, 'Harry.'"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your mother's eyes! Harry, you gave in to Voldemort that once, like you said your father would never do-so don't do it again! I understand now. Harry Potter, you are the only person in the world who can do anything against Voldemort, now that he's killed Dumbledore. Do you know why Voldemort went through all the trouble of going into your mind? That's a very complicated and draining spell, Harry, and that was his last shot. *Do you know why*?" Hermione didn't let him answer. She continued, feverishly, "*Because that was the only thing he could do!* Harry, the only person who can defeat you is yourself, understand? And you just had enough-enough *darkness* in you, all that loneliness from the Dursleys, growing up an orphan, the suspicion you faced about the Chamber of Secrets in our second year-and you knew it! You *knew*the darkness was there, and you hated it, I know, like you hate yourself now. Voldemort gave you that darkness, Harry. He manipulated so many aspects of your life from the moment he killed your parents. You lived in a controlled environment, every possible pain calculated, just so that Voldemort could use it against you in the end! And he _used _you Harry, it wasn't your fault! Voldemort knew you would give in. . .he had it predetermined that you would. But even then, you had your mother's eyes. Voldemort knew about this, but he certainly wasn't counting on it to come through like it did. . .do you know why Dumbledore shouted 'Lily?'" This was another question Harry wasn't meant to answer. "Because even as he saw you-the you Voldemort had possessed-kill him, Dumbledore knew you still had Lily's eyes! The real Harry was down there somewhere, so he called it up. I don't know why it worked, I think only Dumbledore knows that, and even you can't remember. But the point is, you have your mother's eyes-*the light side is always there_.* _You can defeat Voldemort when you recognize that, Harry. 

"Voldemort is waiting, Harry, and he can win as long as you let him. As long as you hate yourself the darkness will still be there, the self-doubt. So many people believe in you-I believe in you-why can't you believe in yourself? If you run away again, Voldemort is winning. You-you have to remember you have your mother's eyes, Harry. And you have to remember even your father couldn't have overcome Voldemort. Giving in was wrong, but inevitable, and it wasn't the *real*thing that was wrong-it was *running away*_. _Your father would never have run away. The Harry Potter I know would never have run away. "

  
  


It hurt. Deeper than the perpetual vacant ache inside him, more profound, and for a moment he hated himself all over again for running away. But there it was, the truth like old wound laid bare, mottled scar tissue peeled away. Finally. 

  
  


***********************************

The world exhaled-whatever strange magic Hermione had done, that odd pause, it was over. Harry had at some point in that eternal pause taken his hand from his pocket and it hung at his side unnoticed, bleeding gently onto the grey sidewalk. 

"How did you know?" Harry murmured.

A half-smile dawned on Hermione's lips. "Magic," she said softly, "isn't just about twiddling wands and chanting words. That was the magic Hogwarts taught us. It was the only magic Hogwarts _could _have taught us. Real magic is-deeper. It's about knowing things, not with crystal balls or tea leaves or tarot cards. Just *knowing_.* _ It takes a lifetime to learn, Harry, and it's the rarest thing in the world."

Harry gazed up at her, confused and awed. "It's the most wonderful thing in the world, Hermione," he said, finally. "I-"

"You're welcome, Harry," Hermione replied, her smile widening. "Maybe it's time to get to the Leaky Cauldron," she continued after a necessary silence between them. "It's almost four. We're meeting Ron for dinner around seven thirty. I should really have a look at your hand, Harry, and you look like you could use a nap. _And_ I think we should have a *real*talk, just the cold facts, now that we've gotten over the hardest part."

"You really want to know what's been happening to me for the last seven years, Hermione?" Harry said, looking down at her curiously. "I'm sure you don't."

"Harry, for me to understand whatever's going on I've got to listen. You've got to explain. And of course I want to know what you've been doing. God, Harry, _something _had to be going on if you've left us for so long. I've missed you. More than you know," Hermione said, her voice too brisk for the words but her eyes twinkling with tears. "I'm going to listen, and tonight Ron's going to listen, and we'll work through this. We've never let each other down, and you're crazy if you think that's going to start now. We're going to get through this together, all three of us, like at Hogwarts."

"The terrible trio," Harry muttered, feeling a smile tug the corners of his mouth despite himself.

"Or the three musketeers," Hermione said, smiling back. 

"And hopefully I won't almost kill myself with a coffee cup," Harry said ruefully.

"That's *another*thing we need to talk about," Hermione said, her voice serious, starting to walk in the direction that the Leaky Cauldron apparently lay.

As he followed Hermione back into the world he had fled for seven years, it seemed to Harry that something had started to heal in him. It seemed to him that the perpetual ache in the general region of his heart was a little less. Only a little. But it was something. And for the first time, Harry truly stopped regretting his return. He had come home and found himself, right where he had been in the first place. And that was something, too.

  
  


**Me again. God, this is bad. I hate the way I ended up explaining things. . .I'm thinking I should have saved this for later on, but I really couldn't think of another way to do it. I might write a revised version of Homecoming some time in the future, but at the moment I've decided that I'm just going to work through this a scene at a time. And I promise, it'll get better. Any unanswered questions *will* be answered in the next episode, we'll actually see some other characters (Draco and Ron have been complaining dreadfully about their non-appearances), we'll find out about Ron's dilemma, and how things turned out like they did will be revealed-partially, at least. I'm bracing myself for flames, so go ahead. But be gentle, I'm working through writer's block, and really *blazing* flames hurt!!**


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